The New World
by maskofjack
Summary: Because healing exists for all wounds, for everyone.


_Heat._

_Salty sweat flowed down tan, lacerated arms. He tripped over more creepers, thorns further scraping his limbs. The sweat mixed with blood and ignited his veins. He bit back tears of pain, along with those of terror. They were hunting _him_. A boy. They wanted to kill him, just like they had killed Simon and Piggy. But this time, they knew. This was not just confusion at a dark dance. This was not one boy's insidious rage. This was everyone. This was SamandEric, Jack, Roger, Maurice, Bill, Wilfred, _everyone_. The boys he had led, served, _befriended_._

_Hair sticking to a forehead wrinkled in concentration, hair covering desperate eyes. They wanted his blood, his life. Panic swelled in his heart, his pulse pounded in his ears. He had to get away, but he couldn't even _see _through the tears burning his eyes. The darkness of the smoke and ash masked the panorama. His arms flailed madly, pushing fiery bushes and branches and trees from his path._

_Voices cut through the black world, _"Form a line!"_ Perhaps if he could make out a silhouette, he would know where they were? But his senses were overloaded with the taste of embers, the feeling of flames, the sound of chanting, the smell of burning earth, and the sight of Hell. His instinct pushed him forward, his mind shut down._

_Lungs and legs burned from his labors, but he could not stop. Not when they could be so close, and especially not as the smoke thinned and he saw them- paint melting off of burnt faces and torsos, spears poised above their heads. They were all so angry, but _why?_ Why were they doing this to him? Why did they hate him? Why did Jack harbor such incendiary rage towards him? Why was he leading everyone to this? He had given Jack power over the choir; he had allowed him the glory of the hunt, and the pride of his face paint. So why, why now did he feel that this violent, flaming death was the only answer? How could Ralph avoid it? Where could he hide?_

No. Not the tree, they'll surround me.

No. No more thickets.

_He was the last boy left. He was the only remnant of schools, parents, rules, and home. He promised safety and rescue and other things Jack no longer wanted. The bloodlust of the hunt would never be permitted in England. The murder of Roger could never be forgiven back there. Heated arguments under scorching suns had destroyed all civility in the children. Of course they'd chosen savagery over sanity, beaches over Britain, and hunting over humanity. Any other desire had been consumed in an inferno of hatred and pain._

_No more wisdom, camaraderie, goodness._

_No more rescue, society, life._

_But he did not have the time to think anymore. Not when he was crouching in the bushes, roasting alive in the fire he had intended for rescue. Not when they stood so close to him, descending upon him, spears pointed, faces visible, bodies bleeding, flames flashing, _would he make it if he broke the line?_, voices shouting, words cutting, anger brewing, chants-_

Thundering woke him from his nightmare, the hundredth he had dreamed hundred days he'd been home. He never could sleep after them, so often times he would turn on the light and read. He couldn't sit in the dark, not after he had lost Simon and Piggy. He was terrified of their ghosts, certain that if he laid in the darkness, they would seep into the room and _stare at him_. He could only imagine their hatred-filled eyes. So much conviction and anger would churn in them as they pieced his broken heart. He couldn't face them, not after murdering one and abandoning the other. He was so guilty of their deaths. The others were insane, caught up in their delusions. But he knew. He was not a savage. He had known what they would do to Piggy, and he would recognize the small, weak body of Simon anywhere. No. He had known, and he knew they knew it. He didn't want to face an emaciated, bleeding Simon staring at him from a spear-maimed face. He couldn't handle the image of Piggy, split open and brainless, squinting at him because the specs were hidden Ralph's closet, far from the specter's reach. No, he didn't sit in the dark, and he didn't dare sleep.

So he read, because he could forget about himself. He didn't have to be in this room, surrounded by his guilt. He could be in Scrooge's story, where hearts could change for the better and lives could be spared. Even after he had been so vulgar, Scrooge still found forgiveness. Ralph could feel Scrooge's relief, if only for a second, even though he knew Simon and Piggy could never tell him where he stood. He read his Bible, Jesus' letters telling him that he definitely had found forgiveness in _him_, even if he did still crave closure. At least he could meditate on that grace; _"Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool."_ And he read so much more—_Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, because maybe his Island didn't have to be any more real than the realm beyond the rabbit hole; _The Screwtape Letters_, because at least someone else was haunted by demons; _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_, because if Nemo could escape, then maybe he could, too; _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_, because Tom was _alive_ after witnessing a murder, and that's all Ralph really wanted to be; _Peter Pan_, because he needed to wish upon a star. He devoured books, searching for answers, panaceas, and a way out of his reality.

He read until his alarm clock sounded, reminding him of the date: August 25th—moving day. His father had enough of his "grumbling", as he called it. He was an admiral in the Queen's Navy, and being so used to the stoicism of both his subordinates and commanders, he was not well equipped to understand his son's psychological turmoil. So he was shipping Ralph over the pond to the United States, where he would be living with the grandmother mother he had never met.

His father found his mother when she was a student in university on a study abroad program and he was a lowly midshipman. They'd met at a party, and believed themselves to be in love. After a brief fling, the semester had ended. They parted, heartbroken and didn't speak for two months. Then, on the evening before his first tour, Maxwell Marley got a phone call from his Marie Summers, informing him of her pregnancy. The two decided to marry when Maxwell returned. But Ms. Summers' labor was hard, and she begged the doctors to save her child first. Maxwell obtained leave not to marry Ms. Summers, but to retrieve a motherless son.

But now his father could not stand the sight of him, and his grandmother was willing to take him into her home. He got out of bed and began dressing, dreading his flight and the new world.


End file.
